Beyond

When Gyp had finished reading, she went through some moments of such mental anguish as she had never known, but – just as when Betty first told her of the stealing – her wits and wariness came quickly back. Had he been drinking when he wrote that letter? She could almost fancy that she smelled brandy, but it was so easy to fancy what one wanted to. She read it through again – this time, she felt almost sure that it had been dictated to him. If he had composed the wording himself, he would never have resisted a gibe at the law, or a gibe at himself for thus safeguarding her virtue. It was Rosek’s doing. Her anger flamed up anew. Since they used such mean, cruel ways, why need she herself be scrupulous? She sprang out of bed and wrote:

“How COULD you do such a brutal thing? At all events, let the darling have her nurse. It’s not like you to let a little child suffer. Betty will be ready to come the minute you send for her. As for myself, you must give me time to decide. I will let you know within two days.

    “GYP.”

When she had sent this off, and a telegram to her father at Newmarket, she read Fiorsen’s letter once more, and was more than ever certain that it was Rosek’s wording. And, suddenly, she thought of Daphne Wing, whom her father had seen coming out of Rosek’s house. Through her there might be a way of getting news. She seemed to see again the girl lying so white and void of hope when robbed by death of her own just-born babe. Yes; surely it was worth trying.

An hour later, her cab stopped before the Wagges’ door in Frankland Street. But just as she was about to ring the bell, a voice from behind her said:

“Allow me; I have a key. What may I – Oh, it’s you!” She turned. Mr. Wagge, in professional habiliments, was standing there. “Come in; come in,” he said. “I was wondering whether perhaps we shouldn’t be seeing you after what’s transpired.”

Hanging his tall black hat, craped nearly to the crown, on a knob of the mahogany stand, he said huskily:

“I DID think we’d seen the last of that,” and opened the dining-room door. “Come in, ma’am. We can put our heads together better in here.”

In that too well remembered room, the table was laid with a stained white cloth, a cruet-stand, and bottle of Worcestershire sauce. The little blue bowl was gone, so that nothing now marred the harmony of red and green. Gyp said quickly:

“Doesn’t Daph – Daisy live at home, then, now?”

The expression on Mr. Wagge’s face was singular; suspicion, relief, and a sort of craftiness were blended with that furtive admiration which Gyp seemed always to excite in him.

“Do I understand that you – er – ”

“I came to ask if Daisy would do something for me.”

Mr. Wagge blew his nose.

“You didn’t know – ” he began again.

“Yes; I dare say she sees my husband, if that’s what you mean; and I don’t mind – he’s nothing to me now.”

Mr. Wagge’s face became further complicated by the sensations of a husband.

“Well,” he said, “it’s not to be wondered at, perhaps, in the circumstances. I’m sure I always thought – ”

Gyp interrupted swiftly.

“Please, Mr. Wagge – please! Will you give me Daisy’s address?”

Mr. Wagge remained a moment in deep thought; then he said, in a gruff, jerky voice:

“Seventy-three Comrade Street, So’o. Up to seeing him there on Tuesday, I must say I cherished every hope. Now I’m sorry I didn’t strike him – he was too quick for me – ” He had raised one of his gloved hands and was sawing it up and down. The sight of that black object cleaving the air nearly made Gyp scream, her nerves were so on edge. “It’s her blasted independence – I beg pardon – but who wouldn’t?” he ended suddenly.

Gyp passed him.

“Who wouldn’t?” she heard his voice behind her. “I did think she’d have run straight this time – ” And while she was fumbling at the outer door, his red, pudgy face, with its round grey beard, protruded almost over her shoulder. “If you’re going to see her, I hope you’ll – ”

Gyp was gone. In her cab she shivered. Once she had lunched with her father at a restaurant in the Strand. It had been full of Mr. Wagges. But, suddenly, she thought: ‘It’s hard on him, poor man!’

XIII

Seventy-three Comrade Street, Soho, was difficult to find; but, with the aid of a milk-boy, Gyp discovered the alley at last, and the right door. There her pride took sudden alarm, and but for the milk-boy’s eyes fixed on her while he let out his professional howl, she might have fled. A plump white hand and wrist emerging took the can, and Daphne Wing’s voice said:

“Oh, where’s the cream?”

“Ain’t got none.”

“Oh! I told you always – two pennyworth at twelve o’clock.”

“Two penn’orth.” The boy’s eyes goggled.

“Didn’t you want to speak to her, miss?” He beat the closing door. “Lidy wants to speak to you! Good-mornin’, miss.”

The figure of Daphne Wing in a blue kimono was revealed. Her eyes peered round at Gyp.

“Oh!” she said.

“May I come in?”

“Oh, yes! Oh, do! I’ve been practising. Oh, I am glad to see you!”

In the middle of the studio, a little table was laid for two. Daphne Wing went up to it, holding in one hand the milk-can and in the other a short knife, with which she had evidently been opening oysters. Placing the knife on the table, she turned round to Gyp. Her face was deep pink, and so was her neck, which ran V-shaped down into the folds of her kimono. Her eyes, round as saucers, met Gyp’s, fell, met them again. She said:

“Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, I am glad! I really am. I wanted you so much to see my room – do you like it? How DID you know where I was?” She looked down and added: “I think I’d better tell you. Mr. Fiorsen came here, and, since then, I’ve seen him at Count Rosek’s – and – and – ”

“Yes; but don’t trouble to tell me, please.”

Daphne Wing hurried on.

“Of course, I’m quite mistress of myself now.” Then, all at once, the uneasy woman-of-the-world mask dropped from her face and she seized Gyp’s hand. “Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, I shall never be like you!”

With a little shiver, Gyp said:

“I hope not.” Her pride rushed up in her. How could she ask this girl anything? She choked back that feeling, and said stonily: “Do you remember my baby? No, of course; you never saw her. HE and Count Rosek have just taken her away from me.”

Daphne Wing convulsively squeezed the hand of which she had possessed herself.

“Oh, what a wicked thing! When?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“Oh, I AM glad I haven’t seen him since! Oh, I DO think that was wicked! Aren’t you dreadfully distressed?” The least of smiles played on Gyp’s mouth. Daphne Wing burst forth: “D’you know – I think – I think your self-control is something awful. It frightens me. If my baby had lived and been stolen like that, I should have been half dead by now.”

Gyp answered stonily as ever:

“Yes; I want her back, and I wondered – ”

Daphne Wing clasped her hands.